


Mary Magdalene

by tco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Michael as Dean | Dean as Michael, Necrophilia, Season 9, Torturer Dean, but like vanilla necrophilia im just saying its there to make right by god or whatever, season 9 goes end!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester once more becomes the watcher as he needs to be the first to see his beloved rising from the dead.<br/>He doesn't have three days.<br/>Cleansed of his demons, he swallows them again in order to bring back his savior. He picks the blade and his long ago written destiny  up once more. And it's okay. Because Cas's lips and his eyes will open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mary Magdalene

Fucking water. Had to be the fucking water again. Cas knew he was running short on grace juice. He knew. He knew and yet he had to jump there like the holy fucking restless savior he is. Remains. All that he had was fucking remains, leftovers, appearances – nothing more. He used a fuckload of sigils, of banishing spells, of shit that didn’t work in the end anyway. He was a bit better human at that point. Whatever the fuck lied to him and stole Sam – wasn’t. Still was an angel, with flying skills of a fucking ostrich, but an angel nonetheless. Math was easy. Dean doesn’t know what Cas was counting on when he did it. Cas needed to breathe. Gadreel does not.

Gadreel could walk into this particular reservoir and sit shit through, his only worry being getting Sam’s hair wet. Which is exactly what he did. Could’ve swam outta there already, could be still waiting for a good moment to reemerge and run away. Dean doesn’t know and he can’t afford to find out right now because Cas had to run after that son of a bitch. Cas, who was still righteously pissed at him for not telling the truth, for not asking for help when Cas was sure he could provide it, for putting Sam’s life at stake, for doing the same damn thing he’s been pissed at Cas for years ago. For being reckless and stupid, obviously. Cas, whose vessel needed to breathe because the stolen mojo was too low to keep everything in it going. Cas, who was too determined to save Sam from Dean’s mistake to either care or remember that minutiae.

****

As he comes back to the bunker, he crosses his path with Crowley, who due to their arrangement got to get some fresh air into his joints. Other than letting the bitch go for a walk, the dick is still trapped, the special bullet stuck deep enough into his guts he won’t manage to scratch it out. Which is good, except that Dean doesn’t particularly care anymore. The fact that the demon is here, facing his failure is perhaps the only thing Dean’s got left to read as a potential problem. Rightfully so, because Crowley doesn’t spare him through the courtesy of silence as he eyes the result of the chase with wannabe nonchalant curiosity.

“Bad day in both saving people and hunting things, isn’t it?” he muses after taking in the sight of Dean carrying Castiel’s limp body and obviously lacking either Sam or Heaven’s next most runaway angel. Seems genuinely amused with what he sees. Dean would have punched him in the cunt weren’t it for the fact that he’s got his hands kind of busy. “I’m guessing Moose is already near the Canadian border?” Dean’s face does nothing to counter. Everything is still, unruffled, not a glimpse of emotion. It’s a ghost town. “Great,” Crowley goes on, aiming to play the song until he hits the right note. “Now you and corpse bride can at least get some quality time with each other.” Dean says nothing, he shakes out of whatever hibernation he was in, because instead of just standing there like he’s stupid and still hoping for salvation, he finally rushes past Crowley, going directly towards his room. As they, well, as he passes him, Crowley raises an eyebrow as if he noticed something and Dean almost stops to spit out an absolutely not rhetorical what, but the only thing the fucker decides to say before the door shuts isn’t very useful.

“When can I expect the happy announcement?”

Dean is going to skin the bitch and make him choke on his own bowels. He remembers how to do that. Those aren’t things you forget. Those aren’t things you should want to do, either, but Dean doesn’t care. It’s not like there’s fucking anyone left to stop him. So he’s gonna. Not now, though. For that – there’s time. A whole new hell-stained eternity of time. Now there are more pressing matters to attend.

****

The sheets are kind of getting drenched. Cas is on Dean’s mattress, all wet, all lifeless, all gone. Almost. Dean is sitting on the bed adjacent chair that was meant to be Cas’s but never had the chance to be used accordingly to the designed purpose – which, as an important detail does not get missed by Dean’s attention. It’s tougher this time somehow – dying, coping, understanding. Shit like that he always thought he is above having to agree on. First time Cas died – nothing was left. Same with the next time. Second to last time – also when it involved water because bullshit as an universe-ordering entity does have some fucking sense of humor – it was as if he fucking dissolved. Dean was always like the one fucking disciple who did not believe on faith and demanded proof. Last time he didn’t even have enough time to try to process it and he had it undone within a blink of an eye. He could pretend it didn’t happen at all. With nothing corporeal to make the final statement of demise – Dean always could and would believe that Cas will come back. It’s hard to pull it off when there’s factual and absolutely palpable evidence declaring the finality of what had transpired. Cas made it home. Cas is never gonna make it out. What a grand design of things – irony at its finest. But, Dean figures, there is a pattern to everything. At least in his case. This ain’t the first time he’s paralyzed with hopelessness, spending hours watching a loved one deteriorate slowly, either. Watching over, disagreeing, vicious, calculating options. Only this time Hell won’t answer his call. And he isn’t in position to bargain anymore, he thinks. The only thing he’s got left is the faint hum inside of his head, a residue of Cas’s grace, thin as a single hair, keeping him stuck between two dimensions of nothing, body trapped in an impasse, frozen in the moment of death like a bug in a piece of amber. Dean can’t help but wonder if it just sunk beneath his skin due to a lack of a better place to rot in, or if Cas chose it somehow, or if he himself had swallowed it, sucked it out of Cas’s lips as he touched them, almost fucking devoured with his own, mouth lost in the mindless desperation of everything occurring in his heart simultaneously during that useless attempt at CPR of his, or maybe he sucked it straight out of Cas's flooded lungs, maybe he was that desperate to bring him back. Or that hungry. Guesses he’ll never know what was it now that it’s beyond too late. He’s sorry. He’s fucking sorry. And now he’s not going anywhere, like he should’ve for the first time. It’s always like this, isn’t it, though? Dean does a thing, he fucks it up and then he’s fucking sorry. _Sorry, Cas_ – being the only explanation he can give.

This time the words fall Cas doesn’t even look at him mournfully. Cas’s got his eyes closed and they are not to be reopened.

****

It begs him to end this, the little dust of holy glued into the inside of his mouth, the deepest innards of his skull. Cries for him to _let it go_. Tells him _it doesn’t make any sense_. _It’s agony beyond agony_ – it says – _To watch you die along_ – it whispers sorrowfully to the back of Dean’s heart. _Dead stars shouldn’t linger_ – it insists. _Just do it, just burn me. Find your brother. You won’t save me. Stop trying_.

He doesn’t realize he answered that until it begs again with even more urgency. His reply is so faint its presence is barely marked with the click of his tongue against the back of his teeth. The vowel doesn’t even make a sound on its way out. It’s just a shape. “No,” Dean tries to say. He rises from his chair, his stiff body suddenly remembers it’s made of bones and muscles. Stale air escapes his joints as he leaves the room with an expression so unreadable Cas wouldn’t have decoded it even if he were there alive to see it. Dean’s face is an inhuman screaming ripping through the nothingness of the night. During that dead scream of his mind, final decisions fall. Dean walks past Crowley again in eerie silence as he makes his way from the bathroom, carrying a basin and towels. Crowley cringes, doesn’t say a thing this time. Good, Dean thinks and lets the door slam behind him again. The star-ash that is left a visceral tingling on the smallest hairs of his arm begins to itch Dean questioningly as he calmly and cautiously places his mysterious devices on the vacant bed stand. 

“We’re not gonna do that like this,” he says. “You don’t wanna go soaked and dirty,” he adds, lying. It’s obvious he’s lying. It burns him slightly. He frowns. “Sometimes we just don’t have options,” he explains sighing and begins to prepare his tools meticulously. 

Carefully, Dean removes Cas’s boots, his socks, his garments. His body is only slightly colder than it was four hours ago. Purpleness of his limbs, although expected – seems entirely missing. As if gravity froze for Cas just like time. Whatever is so feverishly prying beneath Dean’s skin, is unwillingly doing quite a good job with keeping the decomposition at bay. Maybe doesn’t give up until he does, Dean thinks. He puts Cas’s clothes away with respect. “I’m just gonna wash those, okay?” he assures. He takes the silence as a yes. He takes is as whatever the fuck he wants. 

Dean soaks one of the towels in the water with olive soap mixture from his basin. He starts the work at the feet and very soon, he lets out a broken huff, as if he couldn’t believe his own thoughts. Maybe he doesn’t. But it’s too late for lying now. 

“Would’ve been much more fitting if I had Sam’s hair, you know,” he begins. “The whole feet washing thing, you know. I could be your Mary Magdalene,” he admits, hands on Cas’s calves. “The cool slut saved for whatever perdition she’s been in. You know, cleansed of all the demons, bad girl gone better. Crushing on this exceptional guy like a teenager. Like me, you know?” he almost whispers. “Was first by the grave to see the whole resurrection thing, right? So you don’t disappoint me on that part either, huh, Cas?” before he can give it a thought, he slaps Cas’s thigh affectionately, almost jokingly. He’s about to reprimand himself for what the fuck he just did when he clearly feels it sting him. He hisses in pain. “Hey, stop complaining! ‘M trying to take proper care of you here!” Dean groans. Earns himself another sharp needle to his nerves. “No,” he just says nonchalantly, this time clearly making a sound and continues his work. He forces his eyes not to linger on the general area of between Cas’s legs or his abdomen as he gets it clean, but he’d lie if he said that they listened. “Sorry,” he says in a rush and moves for the chest and arms. That’s manageable. The face is the hardest. It brings too many things onto the surface, sadness boiling through every single muscle of Dean’s mouth, in this half-darkness, reducing it into a sorrowful, twisted grimace. Some tears fall on Cas’s cold cheek, as Dean runs his needy, shaking fingers through the lines and wrinkles of the angel’s face, mapping them, counting, wondering bitterly how many of those were Jimmy’s to begin with and how many he and his doings have brought to life through making Cas sad, disappointed or plain angry. He thinks how fucking often and easy he managed to achieve that and how rare in comparison was it for him to actually make Cas smile or laugh. It’s like he only taught Cas to feel the horrible things when Cas could still feel anything at all. And it has to be his greatest mistake, Dean supposes, because all he wanted to do was the opposite of what he did. He wanted to make Cas’s belly echo with laughter, he wanted his face to become older and older and more human while crow’s feet mark the skin around his eyes as he chuckles in earnest because of silly, insignificant and beautiful things, wanted to get Cas’s vocal cords hoarse and then serve him chicken soup for days after he comes undone obnoxious, wild and loud beneath his touch, writhing hot around his fingers, using his dick as efficiently as he uses a weapon, riding his way to oblivion, skin shimmering with sweat, melting somewhere in his arms, breathing out laughter, profanities, praises, anything and everything through the remains of his voice – right into Dean’s mouth. And after, Dean would tell him that this is how an angel sings and this is how real heaven sounds to him and he would hope maybe it could be enough to make Cas want to be a pile of bones and a sack of blood just like him. 

And now Cas _is_ exactly that. Except that everything went wrong. 

Dean washes away the dust, dirt and his own tears off Cas’s cold face. Places a ghostlike kiss on his discolored lips, hoping the last damn part of the grace will make its way back home, make Cas stand up and walk. “Come on,” Dean murmurs, strokes the stubble on his cheek reassuringly and tries again, lets his mouth linger a moment more. “You can do it. It’s where you belong, Cas.” 

The grace only makes him feel pins and needles in reply. Dean’s hands pretend they don’t go numb with it as he washes Cas’s hair, rinses and dries it off. When he places another soft kiss, on top of his head this time – innocently, fondly, in reverence, praise and apology – the dark hair smells of poppies and cotton. Dean takes it in until his lungs are full. The tingling keeps begging for salt and fire. Once more, Dean denies. There just are things he is not designed to agree on. But he knows that sooner or later it’s going to break him when he’ll try. Not yet. Now he’s going to anoint Cas, change the sheets and take care of the laundry. This is the part of the promise he can fulfill, at least. 

__*_ _

Cas is lying peacefully, covered with a fresh white sheet, still locked in the room and Dean knows he’s got to hurry because out of all the things the bunker has (like very useful spikenard ointment in an alabaster container – as he came to discover), a morgue is one of the things it doesn’t. So Dean keeps it short on the courtesy as he forces Crowley back into shackles, directly into the dungeon. His tools are already waiting to be used. Dean can feel the warm inside of his palm pulling toward the coldness of the metal. He is reminded anew that those iron atrocities and his hands – are a composition well fitted. Crowley knows that, too. It’s the knowledge that saved his life too many times since, being the master of information of a kind, he never thought to underestimate the Winchesters exactly because he knew what a legend precedes Dean when it comes to the good old times of his infernal apprenticeship. To call him a golden child would be an offense. Dean Winchester was on his way to become an unprecedented cause – a new Knight almost claimed to arise. Alastair used to call him the Michael Angelo of torture. Of course, now Dean knows the name goes deeper than just a mildly exaggerated compliment. At this moment any of this hardly matters. He is going to pull a sistine chapel with Crowley’s guts if he has to. Being aware of this also, the aching under his skin resorts to becoming a dull, constant throb, doing all it can to stop Dean. But it won’t work. Once he first took a hold on the blade, he always was and always will be efficient. Crowley notices the visible stillness in his hands, though. 

“I see your boyfriend still doesn’t like you getting dirty?” he mocks. To this, Dean talks back through a deep slash of holy water soaked blade to his chest. “Well, he is the clingy, control-freak type,” the demon continues. “But, I must say, Dean, what you just did surpasses that on every filthy level.” 

“It would be the best time to start talking business, Crowley,” Dean mutters coldly as he sinks his fists into a bucket of holy water. 

“Why? Are you in such a rush to return to your conjugal deadroom to finger your little bird in his eternal sleep?” he prods. 

Dean fixes a blank stare on him. Smiles. He uses his bare hands to spread the wound he just made only to dig deeper into the flesh, burning in a hiss due to the water. Crowley cringes slightly but attempts to keep his dignity. Dean isn’t going to let that happen. 

_“Nah, I guess I’m just gonna finger something else as pastime,” he says nonchalantly and now Crowley _really_ cringes, which puts a vile smirk on Dean’s face. “So, bitch,” he goes on, like it’s casual chit-chat or something similarly friendly, “you gonna moan me out some solutions or do you want me to entertain you with more fingers?” Dean asks, pushing deeper, rougher while pouring more water in with his spare hand. Crowley seems to be almost equally hurt and offended as he is pleased with being a witness of Dean’s apparent moral downfall. “There are so many other things I can merge you with,” Dean assures. “I can get really creative when I’m in the mood. And you know what, Crowley?” his smile widens as his eyes fall more and more distant, empty. “I’m in the mood.”_

“It’s a lost cause, pumpkin,” Crowley offers.”You won’t even make him go into nothing because your simple salt and burn just won’t do. You can’t revive something that didn’t even die right.” 

“Is that so?” Dean brightens and pulls his fingers out of the wound. “See, Cas? Told you I can’t fucking burn you, but you wouldn’t listen,” he says cheerfully. He hisses abruptly – the residue stung him painfully again. “Still don’t wanna,” he sighs. “How about our dick friend here elaborates on why your idea is stupid. So?” he asks and Crowley stares at him with wordless amusement. “ _So?_ ” Dean insists. 

“How about you make me, loverboy,” Crowley smiles. 

“You know I will,” Dean replies and reaches out for another long knife. The grace sends a terrible cramp going through his hand as he’s about to grab the tool. Dean winces. “Shhhhhhh,” he coos to his limb. “It’s okay, Cas, don’t worry about me.” 

“Stunning,” Crowley comments with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says and without a warning, he grabs the knife again and pierces it through the demon’s neck, missing his vocal cords only by a hair. “Now spill.” 

“It’s simple, you idiot… and you, dead idiot,” Crowley groans tiredly, almost hisses. “A dying piece of him sank into you. Burning your sweetest cadaver won’t be enough. Not unless you go and fuck yourself on the stake as well. Which I highly recommend, by the way.” 

“Good,” Dean nods. Pleased with the information. “No, it’s fine, Cas. You didn’t know,” he adds in a comforting tone. Crowley huffs at that. “Back to option one, I guess,” Dean continues his inquiry. 

“There is no option, dumbass!” 

Dean slaps him hard across the face with a hand wet with both Crowley’s own blood and holy water. “We don’t do no here,” he informs plainly. 

“To either erase the leftover or to resurrect an angel you’d need God or an archangel, at least. Now that there are no more feathered morons left to even open the sandbox with the last standing winged assholes, which, considering your history with apocalypse I doubt is even an option worth mentioning, you’d need a special key to do it.” 

“Which is?” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“ _Which is?_ ” he insists. 

“The Holy Spear” Crowley laughs bitterly. “You won’t get that from Salvation Army, just saying.” 

Dean assesses the data. “Okay,” he says and disappears among some of his tool-shelves only to come back a moment later, wielding a bowl and a familiar set of needles and syringes. He stabs himself with one, draws blood and pours it down the vessel, which he puts next to Crowley’s face. “You. Phone call to the lady in charge. Now,” he orders. 

“You’re delirious.” 

Dean plugs his other hand back into the wound as an incentive. Five digits in. And he twists. 

“I’m doing this only to prove you wrong,” Crowley sighs. “This is Cro–“ he starts as the blood begins to boil, but gets cut off by happy chirping. 

“Dean Winchester!” Abaddon exclaims merrily. 

“Unbelievable,” Crowley hisses, offended to the bone. 

“Is this a social call? Because I’m kind of busy at the moment. So unless you have a very urgent death wish for your ass—“ 

“No,” he interrupts her. “Got my hands quite full, too,” he says and claws deeper into Crowley’s flesh again, earning an audible hiss just to prove his point. Hearing this, Abaddon chuckles too sweetly. “I’m just business here. Think I have an offer that might interest you.” 

“Go ahead, entertain me,” she laughs. 

“I figured you’d be more of the old school kind of a dude, no?” he starts. “What if I got your sugar daddy and his pouty brother out?” 

She remains quiet for a moment. “What’s in it for you?” Abaddon inquires, wary. 

“A helping hand, mostly. Or two. With fuckload of mojo,” Dean shrugs. “Plus, Lucifer wouldn’t be very happy to see some other piece of a cunt stealing my brother. Might want to purge the fucker out.” 

“Is a fucker riding your brother, Dean?” She asks amused and shocked both. 

“Gossip would’ve came out sooner or later, so yeah, long story short, he is.” 

“Lucifer is going to use him as a vessel, then. How am I supposed to believe this is a better option for you?” 

“Only if Sam says yes.” 

“I’ve been told that he did, once,” she points out. 

“And we’ve taken care of it, once,” Dean cuts it. 

“Are you aware of how difficult that is?” she makes a long, thoughtful pause. “The cage would’ve been long opened if it was that simple, Dean.” 

“I’ve got the magic stick to open that can of fucks,” Dean tells her and he can hear her gasp at that revelation. “It’s in here.” 

“What?!” Crowley snarls. “You’re bluffing!” 

__Dean sighs. “Look. You feel like it, I’m gonna stab you with it as soon as I hang up, okay? Now shut the hell up, adults are talking.”_ _

Abaddon laughs. “I don’t believe you, either,” she says. 

“Come by and see for yourself. It’s not like there’s something for you to lose. In three hours. Lebanon, main crossroad. Try any tricks and I kill you and everything around you. As you might’ve guessed I’m having a bad day.” 

“I’ll see you, then. Better not make it a waste my time,” she warns and hangs up. 

Crowley stares at him in suspicion. 

“You really have to be joking. Do you think your love dove is going to let that slide even if you pull this one through and somehow live long enough to see the end of it, Squirrel?” 

“At this point I think he’s aware that there aren’t any other moves to make here,” Dean admits. “So yeah, Cas, while you’re at it, I’d appreciate if you would not parkinson’s your way through this one because it is not going to change shit,” he says just in case as he proceeds to put all of his tools back in their former place., being even courteous enough to remove the knife from Crowley’s throat before making his leave. 

__****_ _

Dean lies down next to Cas and tugs himself into his stiff body from behind. He whispers excuses and apologies into his hair. Tells him this time he really doesn’t have a choice. Cas’s grace pulsates beneath his heart woefully, trying to ask: _what are you going to do, Dean?_

“Shush,” he says into the skin of Cas’s neck. “I’ll do what I have to do.” He pets his arm lovingly, lets his hand rest on his waist. “For the last time this time, I swear, Cas – forgive me, okay?” 

___Please, Dean, what are you trying to do?_ _ _

“Okay,” he repeats, placing a kiss on Cas’s back, attempting to dismiss the question. “It’s okay,” he reassures the grace, the corpse. “It’s okay,” he soundlessly mouths the promise to himself, trying to convince himself that it, in fact, is. He’ll have to say yes to Michael tonight. So it better be. 

__****_ _

“You reek, Dean,” Abaddon greets him at the crossroad cheerfully, charming as always. “Like you slept with corpses,” she smiles, saying it like it’s a compliment. 

“Maybe I did,” he replies, offering a courteous smile. “What can I say – fun night, as you see,” he shrugs. 

“Can’t disagree with that,” she says, staring at him like he’s the biggest conundrum she’s seen in her long, long life. 

“I’m in quite a hurry, so if you don’t mind, let’s cut the shit and just do our jobs,” he says, pointing at the spear in his grasp. 

“Fine,” she agrees, content. “You’re in for the ride down there or do you pass?” 

“Had enough of hell memories scratching at the back of my head today, thanks,” Dean waves the offer off. “Just have one of your losers take this,” he says as he breaks the relic and throws the spearhead at her. “And use it accordingly.” 

Abaddon frowns slightly. “You don’t trust me,” she says, nodding. “Good.” 

“Just tell Michael we need to talk. He’ll know where to find me.” 

“Can’t wait to see you wearing crowns and feathers, Dean,” she chuckles. 

“Can’t wait to have your head under a sword, either,” he replies. 

Abaddon smiles and disappears. 

__****_ _

Cas opens his eyes. Calls him by the name. Dean smiles. Smiles and actually allows himself to feel it. This is the last time he’s going to feel things. Relief being primary emotion to have isn’t that bad, after all. Michael is a dick, but a dick that keeps his promise. He cleansed Sam. He brought Cas back. This is a price worth paying. To be honest, he’s sad, too. They’re gonna hate him. Gonna hate him long after he’s gone. But at least they’re gonna be alive and breathing while they’re at it. Cas eyes him with worry. 

“Told you I’d be first to see you after resurrection,” Dean says gleefully and places his hand on Cas’s shoulder. It’s a wonderful feeling. 

“Dean, what did you do?” he asks gravely, solemnly and Dean, despite a sharp pain in his chest, is so glad to actually hear that voice once more. 

“Fixed shit, I hope. Did what I had to. While I remember, there’s pasta in the fridge and Crowley in the dungeon. Suit yourself, place is yours.” 

“Dean…” he calls again, pries for answers. 

“I don’t have much time, okay? You’ll do an angry thing or seven later, okay? Please, find Sam. Take care of him. Don’t let him break, don’t let him do anything stupid, don’t let him go to Detroit. Tell him I’m sorry.” 

“Dean, what have you done?” Cas asks, even more urgent. 

“Cas…” Dean begins, swallows hard and kisses him on the spot right next to the corner of his mouth. Runs his fingers through his hair, feels him gasp in astonishment against his lips. Pulls away. “I’m sorry.” 

“Dean,” Cas sits up weakly, but the desperate grasp on Dean’s shirt is actually pretty strong. “Answer me.” 

“The cage, Cas. It’s opened. But don’t worry. It’ll be over soon. I won’t let anyone get hurt, I promise.” 

“Did you do this? What for? Because of Sam?” 

“Not only. Last time I get a chance to say it. Because of you, Cas. And you would’ve done the same for me, so don’t be a douche bag about this.” 

“Do you think it was worth it?” Cas asks brokenly. 

“Was worth it. You can hate me and it’s still gonna be worth it. You’re always gonna be worth it.” 

“Why?” 

“Shit my dad pulled for mom. Why wouldn’t I have pulled the same for you?” Dean says, smiles again. Feels Cas gripping his shirt, feels him breathing. He knows it was worth it and it makes him so damn happy in the end. “Hope you won’t be mad with me anymore by the time we’ll see each other on the other side. Bye, Cas,” he says upon standing up, kisses the top of his head again. He hears Cas murmur his name as he leaves. The door shuts behind him. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Last thing he hears is the sound of Cas shouting his name and hitting something. And he thinks, although bitterly mostly that he did manage to get his throat hoarse, in the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Anna's post about Dean not being able to let go of Cas. And his body, putting it very, very subtly.  
> And Słoń's "Love forever", which suddenly turned around a lot when I came across Beyonce's "Heaven" and lemme tell you-


End file.
